


New Seeds

by opalescentdreams



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Death of a Parent, EMOTIONSSSS, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Slow Build, Slow Burn, World Exploration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentdreams/pseuds/opalescentdreams
Summary: October is on her way to Stardew Valley, ready to take over her late grandfather's farm and create a new life for herself—a life where she can feel loved and be known.
Kudos: 2





	1. Approaching Pelican Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic and is a major work in progress, so be gentle with me :) Slow-paced, just like the game. Eventual romance of course.

It had officially been three days since I left the city, though there was no way to tell if I was even getting closer to my destination. I had been marking the miles passed by how many days it had been since I had boarded the train, since I took in the last bit of my time in the city; I remember inhaling deeply, smelling the smoky, musky odor of bustling crowds and then consciously looking up, searching for the industrial greyness that I had grown accustomed to. I was afforded just a moment of sentimental observation before being urged onto the steel staircase leading up to the car. The station signs passed rapidly, their calls to passengers blurred by the speed of the train; the city sunk further and further beneath the rising hills. I felt as if I was launching full-speed into the unknown, the occasional catch of my stomach as the train accelerated reflecting the unease I would not let myself express otherwise. 

I didn’t even know how many hours I’d been staring out the window at this point. I felt a mix of impatience and anxiety, simultaneously wanting to feel the strangeness of sleeping in my new, unknown bed, but feeling utterly unable to leave my compartment. The train, in all of its rustic, lurching comfort was my only home now. I lived in its stale warmth, its worn, velveteen seats, its reassuring click along the tracks; I grew more attached to it every day though not any more comfortable. The cramped apartment I had called home for the past three years was empty now, not a single trace of my existence—a fact I had made sure of because I was really banking on using that deposit to buy some seeds. Everything felt so far away now. My brain seems to let go of everything but the present—out of self-preservation or just plain fear, I’m not sure—but I physically felt myself starting to forget the city. I wondered what the pavement felt like under my feet or what the trash on the sidewalk smelled like in the summer. 

My dad had given me a few extra dollars to book a private sleeping compartment, which I was now thankful for. I stared at the dark ceiling as I laid in the simply dressed cot, entangled in hot cotton sheets. The wallclock clicked at just the right volume to make me feel unraveled. I decided I couldn’t take my own thoughts anymore and ignited the oil lamp next to the bed. Tea would surely make me feel a bit more stable. I walked over to the little bar cart and starting pouring hot water into the little porcelain teacup marked with the railroad company’s insignia, which I had briefly considered stealing earlier. My eyes absentmindedly found the wax-sealed letter sitting on the edge of the cart. I stared at it, my thoughts sinking to my last moments with him when I read the letter for the first time. My eyes were clouded with tears and I promised him that I would go, even though I didn’t even consider it a serious possibility at the time. My body sunk into the grief of missing him, my arms felt like jelly and my knees buckled under my melting weight. I felt a sharp sear on my skin and I dropped the kettle with a clatter. My hand burned, but it felt like relief.

“Everything alright in there, miss?” A concerned voice called through the thin wooden compartment door. I stuttered and quickly tried to pick up my mess, red in the face. 

“Yes, I’m...I’m fine! I dropped my teacup when we turned that corner…” 

The coachman seemed unconvinced but didn’t press the matter any further. 

“Well, miss, I came to tell you that we will be reaching your destination tomorrow morning at eight.”

Eight. It felt so soon. 

“Pelican Town?” I called back, sounding like a nervous child who was traveling alone for the first time.

“Yes, miss. Pelican Town.” 

“At eight?” I heard a grumble of annoyance. He cleared his throat.

“At eight. Yes. Eight in the morning—Pelican Town.” 


	2. On Being Known

What kind of name was Pelican Town anyway? I thought all of these northern valley-towns were supposed to have poetic names that rolled off the tongue; we had passed signs for Willow’s Glen, Faerie’s Rest, Calico Meadows...Pelican Town felt clunky in comparison. It felt like a scruffy, younger brother. 

It was hot as hell on this bus. The hot spring sun shone through the scratched, dusty windows as we rumbled along the dirt road. There had been no asphalt for miles. I didn’t think grandpa was  _ that  _ rustic. 

My hair clung to the sweat on my forehead, begging to be swept away by a cool breeze, but it found no respite. It was just me and the driver, a rough, crude woman by the name of Pam. She puffed on a cigarette as she drove, the sharp, pungent smell nearly suffocating us both. She kept stealing glances at me through the rearview window, sizing me up. Her ashy blonde curls coiled tight around her hard, birdlike face. Her eyes burnt hot in the already-sweltering bus. Needless to say, I was intimidated. 

“You sure you’re in the right place?” She broke the stifling silence between drags. I had been certainly questioning that myself, but I gave a polite smile.   
“Yeah, I am.”

She gave not so much as a nod.

“I suppose I’m somewhat of a local myself...my grandpa lived here for many years. I’m taking care of his farm now,” I added, hoping that would ease some of her shrewd looks. “Or at least I intend to.” 

Her eyes widened with surprise. “ _ You’re  _ Hamish’s granddaughter?” 

She chuckled. “October, or something right? I knew it was something weird. That man was  _ something _ . I think I remember you running around in a diaper in the town square!” 

My cheeks went red. What a peculiar thing it is to meet someone who used to know you. I wonder what she remembered of me; sure, she remembered my unusual name. Did she remember me as a little girl who’d spend weeks in the summer at my grandpa’s farm? Who used to proudly walk through town covered in mud after helping muck the stables, or who would lie on her belly on the dock and watch the moonlight jellies float underneath on cool summer nights? Or did she remember me as Hamish’s granddaughter who stopped coming during the summer once she found friends in the city? Did she hear of my letters and wonder what had ever happened to me? I felt entirely distant from that little girl, and frankly embarrassed that I wasn’t her. All my adult life, Stardew Valley has felt both present and distant; I had written my grandpa’s address,  _ 1 October Lane, Pelican Town,  _ hundreds of times before, addressing letters, packages, packets of seeds, but I could never see myself there. I knew every little thing that was happening with the crops each season but could never imagine myself amongst the cornstalks, smelling the earthy, sweet air of the harvest. I was forever five years old—whoever  _ I  _ was back then. Twenty-two-year-old October didn’t belong there. 

“Hamish was well-loved. We all loved him from the moment he arrived to the moment he passed,” Pam interjected, interrupting my thoughts. She seemed remorseful. “And I assure you, anyone that Hamish loved, we’re bound to love too.” 

I detected a momentary softness in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Her voice was a bit hoarse now, talking about my grandfather. I could sense the real and familiar love she had for him. Apparently he had given her bread, milk, and cheese every week when her daughter, Penny, was little and Pam wasn’t making much money. That was grandpa—ever and unendingly generous. It was clear I had big shoes to fill. 

I tried to wrap my mind around what she said, about the town loving me as they loved grandpa. As a bit of a townie, I was unfamiliar with the simple fact that there was a “we” to love—a community, a family. Contrary to popular belief, cities do have souls, but I had never experienced anything like what I felt in Pelican Town. Once my mother died giving birth to me, the only family I had (aside from my cold, but well-meaning father) was my grandpa. So, naturally, the valley always felt like home. I think I had been afraid of that for so long; feeling comfortable and capitulating to being known was terrifying, which was probably why I’d been relying on the anonymity of the city for my whole life up until that point. But it was a new day. 


End file.
